Page 18

"Rise and shine, Sean! Some of us have a game to prepare for!"

Zach's cheerful voice cut through my sleep like a chainsaw, accompanied by the blaring of his phone alarm. I groaned, burying my face deeper into my pillow.

"Five more minutes," I mumbled, not ready to face the day.

"No can do," Zach replied, yanking the curtains open to let in the morning light. "Coach wants us all at breakfast by seven, and Peterson's already hogging the shower."

I rolled onto my back, wincing slightly as I rotated my shoulder. It was definitely improving—the physical therapy was working—but mornings were still stiff and uncomfortable.

"How's the wing today?" Zach asked, noticing my grimace as he laced up his shoes.

"Better," I said, sitting up and carefully stretching. "Still not game-ready, but I can move it more each day."

"That's good," Zach nodded, then his expression shifted to a knowing smirk. "Must have been all that physical therapy you were doing last night."

I froze, then feigned innocence. "Don't know what you're talking about. I was here, watching game tape with you guys."

"Sure," Zach's grin widened. "Come on, Sean. Your bed wasn't slept in until after midnight, and you came in looking like you'd won the lottery."

"You were awake?" I asked, giving up the pretense.

"Dude, these walls are paper thin. I heard you fumbling with the keycard for like five minutes." Zach shook his head in mock disappointment. "For someone so stealthy on the ice, you make a terrible ninja."

I threw my pillow at him, which he caught easily. "Nothing happened," I insisted. "We just talked and fell asleep."

"Sure," Zach waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Just talked . Now hurry up. I need my pre-game pancakes, and you need to see your boy before he withers away from separation anxiety."

I rolled my eyes but moved faster, suddenly eager to get downstairs and see Lucas again, despite having left him only a few hours ago.

At breakfast, the team was in high spirits, the anticipation of game day buzzing through the hotel restaurant. Lucas was already there, notebook open beside his plate as he chatted with Tristan about the captain's pre-game routine.

He looked up as I approached, and the smile that spread across his face made something warm unfurl in my chest.

"Morning," I said, sliding into the seat across from him. "Sleep well?"

"Very," Lucas replied, his eyes twinkling with private amusement. "Though someone stole my pillow in the middle of the night."

"How inconsiderate," I said solemnly. "You should file a complaint with hotel management."

"I would, but it was actually an upgrade from the standard issue." Lucas took a sip of his coffee, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Beside us, Tristan groaned. "If you two are going to be this disgustingly cute all day, I'm switching tables."

"No one's stopping you," I pointed out, stealing a piece of toast from Lucas's plate.

"Hey!" Lucas protested. "I was saving that."

"Sharing is caring," I informed him, taking a bite. "Besides, I need my strength for all the bench-warming I'll be doing today."

Despite my joking tone, a familiar pang of disappointment hit me. Game days had always been my favorite—the rush of adrenaline, the focus that came with knowing every move mattered, the camaraderie of battle. Being sidelined, even temporarily, was harder than I wanted to admit.

Lucas, perceptive as always, caught the shift in my mood. "Coach said you'd be helping with strategy from the bench today, right? Because you know the opposing team's patterns?"

"Yeah," I confirmed, grateful for the reminder that I wasn't completely useless. "Their defense has some tells I picked up on last season. Figured I might as well put my obsessive game analysis to good use."

"See? The team still needs you," Lucas said, his gaze warm and understanding. "Just in a different capacity."

"Listen to your boyfriend, Sean," Tristan chimed in. "Some of us have been saying for years that your brain is more valuable than your brawn."

"My brawn is excellent, thank you very much," I retorted, flexing my good arm dramatically.

"No argument here," Lucas murmured, then blushed when he realized he'd said it aloud.

Breakfast continued in this vein, with easy conversation and good-natured ribbing that made me forget, for stretches at a time, that I wouldn't be on the ice today. Having Lucas there—watching him interact with my teammates, seeing him take notes for his article while still being fully present in the moment—filled a space I hadn't realized needed filling.

After the meal, we headed to the arena for morning skate. Lucas split off to go to the press area, promising to find me before the game, while I joined the team in the locker room.

It was strange being there in street clothes instead of gear, but Coach Barnett immediately pulled me into the pre-skate briefing, asking my input on defensive pairings and special teams strategies. The fact that he valued my opinion, that he saw me as more than just an injured player taking up a roster spot, meant more than I could express.

Once the players hit the ice for warmups, I found a spot for myself on the bench, wearing a team polo and a headset to listen in on coach communications. From this vantage point, I could see the familiar patterns of drills, the way my teammates moved through their routines, the small adjustments the coaches called for.

It wasn't the same as being out there, feeling the ice beneath my skates and the puck on my stick, but it was something.

During the second period of the game, Lucas appeared beside me on the bench, having come down from the press box.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked. "Better view of the action down here."

"Be my guest," I replied, making room for him. "Though I should warn you, I get pretty animated during close games."

"I've noticed," Lucas laughed, settling in. "You were practically levitating off the bench during that power play in the first period."

"Was I?" I hadn't realized I was being so obvious. "Force of habit, I guess. It's weird watching instead of playing."

"You're good at it, though," Lucas observed. "I saw Tristan adjust his positioning after you called something out to him."

I shrugged my good shoulder. "Just noticed their forward was cheating toward the middle. Tristan picked up on it right away."

As if on cue, the action shifted to our offensive zone. Tristan received a pass at the point, faked a shot that drew the defender in, then slid the puck to our winger for a clean look at the net. The lamp lit up as the puck sailed into the top corner, and our bench erupted in cheers.

"Yes!" I shouted, jumping to my feet. "That's exactly what we talked about! Perfect execution!"

In the rush of excitement, I turned to Lucas, my face split in a grin of pure joy. Before I could think better of it, I leaned in and pressed a quick, impulsive kiss to his lips.

Lucas's eyes widened in surprise, a blush creeping up his neck as he quickly glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. A couple of the backup players nearby smirked, but they were too focused on the game to make much of it.

"Keep it PG, Sean," one of them called with a grin. "There are freshmen present."

I laughed, not embarrassed in the slightest. The kiss had been instinctive, a natural expression of the happiness coursing through me, and for once, I hadn't stopped to overthink who might see or what they might think.

"Sorry," I said to Lucas, though I wasn't sorry at all. "Got carried away."

"Don't apologize," Lucas replied, his initial shock melting into a warm smile. "It was nice."

The rest of the game passed in a blur of strategic adjustments, moments of tension, and ultimately, victory. As the final buzzer sounded, sealing our 4-2 win, the team poured off the bench to celebrate at center ice. I hung back, not wanting to intrude on their moment, but Tristan skated over and beckoned insistently.

"Get out here, Sean," he called. "This win's as much yours as ours."

Hesitantly, I stepped onto the ice in my shoes, careful of my balance as I joined the celebration. The team enveloped me in their circle, thumping my back and including me in their post-game ritual.

When we returned to the locker room, the atmosphere was jubilant. Coach Barnett gave his usual post-win speech, praising effort and execution while pointing out areas for improvement. Then, to my surprise, he called me to the center of the room.

"Sean may not have played today," he said, looking around at the team, "but his contributions from the bench made a difference. Strategy, communication, leadership—all the intangibles that make a player valuable beyond just what they do on the ice."

He handed me the game puck, a symbolic gesture usually reserved for the standout player of the match. "This one's yours, Sean. For showing that there's more than one way to be part of this team."

I accepted the puck, momentarily speechless. It was a small thing, really—just a rubber disc that would sit on my shelf alongside dozens of others. But the recognition of my value beyond my physical abilities, the acknowledgment that I was more than just my performance on the ice, hit me with unexpected force.

"Thanks, Coach," I managed, emotion thickening my voice. "And thanks, guys. For letting me be part of it, even from the bench."

The team responded with good-natured cheers and a few theatrical bows in my direction, transforming what could have been an awkward moment into just another aspect of our collective celebration.

As we packed up to leave, I caught sight of Lucas hovering near the doorway, his expression a mixture of professional neutrality and personal pride. I beckoned him over, not caring who noticed the way my face lit up at his approach.

"Congratulations, Coach Sean," he teased, nodding at the puck in my hand. "First win as a strategist."

"I could get used to it," I admitted. "Though I'd still rather be out there blocking shots."

"All in good time," Lucas assured me, his fingers brushing mine briefly as he pretended to examine the puck. "For what it's worth, the guys really listen to you. You've got a natural coaching ability."

The observation struck me as significant, though I wasn't quite sure why. It was something to think about later, perhaps—the idea that my value to hockey might extend beyond my years as a player.

Back at the hotel, everyone showered and packed up for the return journey. Lucas slipped an arm around my waist as we waited by the bus, our bags at our feet.

"Today was good," he said softly. "Seeing you in your element, even if it wasn't the way you're used to being there."

"It was," I agreed, surprised to find I meant it. "Different, but good."

On the ride home, we sat together again. The conversation was lighter this time, playful banter about everything from Lucas's terrible taste in music to my apparently "concerning" addiction to spicy food.

"It's not an addiction," I protested. "It's an appreciation for flavor."

"Sean, I've seen you put hot sauce on ice cream," Lucas countered. "That's not appreciation. That's a cry for help."

"It was mint chip!" I defended. "Mint and chili is a classic combination."

"In what universe?"

"The universe of refined palates, Lucas. You wouldn't understand with your bland, suburban taste buds."

Lucas gasped in mock offense. "My taste buds are sophisticated and worldly!"

"Your favorite food is grilled cheese," I pointed out.

"A perfect food!" Lucas insisted. "The platonic ideal of comfort and simplicity!"

"My point exactly," I said triumphantly. "You're a food simpleton."

"And you're a heat-seeking masochist," Lucas retorted, poking me in the ribs.

The playful argument continued until I noticed Lucas stifling a yawn. "Tired?" I asked, shifting to make my shoulder available as a pillow.

"A bit," he admitted. "Watching you bounce around the bench like an excited puppy for three periods was exhausting."

"I do not bounce," I objected.

"You absolutely do," Lucas countered, even as he settled against my side, his head finding the spot on my shoulder that seemed made for it. "It's cute, though. Like watching a hockey savant have religious experiences over proper defensive positioning."

I was about to argue further when I realized he was already dozing off, his breathing slowing as he relaxed against me. Instead, I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, marveling at how natural it felt to have him there.

Zach, passing by to retrieve something from his bag in the overhead storage, caught the gesture and gave me a knowing smirk.

The ride back to campus seemed shorter somehow, the familiar landscapes passing in a blur as I alternated between watching Lucas sleep and chatting quietly with teammates who stopped by our seat. When we finally arrived back at the university, it was nearly midnight, the campus quiet and still.

Lucas stirred as the bus came to a stop, blinking sleepily as he straightened up. "We're back already?"

"You slept through most of it," I informed him, running a hand through his hair to tame the rumpled mess my shoulder had made of it. "And you definitely drooled a little this time."

"Did not," he protested, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm a dignified sleeper."

"Sure you are," I agreed, helping him gather his things as we prepared to disembark. "Very dignified. Like a puppy having a dream about chasing squirrels."

Outside, the night air was chilly, and I noticed Lucas shiver as we stood waiting for the team to unload the equipment. Without thinking, I shrugged off my team jacket and draped it around his shoulders.

"You'll freeze," Lucas protested, though he made no move to return the jacket.

"I run hot," I explained with a smile. "Especially after games, even ones I don't play in."

"Must be the company," Lucas suggested, pulling the jacket closer around him.

"Must be," I agreed, enjoying the sight of him wrapped in my team colors.

We walked slowly away from the bus, neither of us quite ready for the evening to end. The campus was beautiful at night, the walkways lit by old-fashioned lamps that cast pools of golden light on the cobblestones.

"Thank you for coming this weekend," I said as we approached his apartment building. "It meant a lot, having you there."

"I wouldn't have missed it," Lucas replied, his expression sincere in the gentle lighting. "Besides, I got some great material for my article. 'The Other Side of the Bench: A Player's Perspective on Leadership Beyond the Ice.' What do you think?"

"I think you make me sound a lot more impressive than I am," I laughed. "But I like it."

We paused outside his door, that familiar moment of hesitation that comes at the end of a night, when you're not quite ready to say goodbye but know you should.

"I should give you your jacket back," Lucas said, making no move to remove it.

"Keep it for now," I suggested. "It looks good on you."

"Yeah?" He glanced down at himself, the oversized jacket hanging past his hands. "I'm pretty sure I look like a kid playing dress-up in his dad's clothes."

"Definitely not what I'm seeing," I assured him, stepping closer to adjust the collar around his neck. "More like my boyfriend wearing my jacket, which is a good look."

Lucas's smile widened at the casual use of "boyfriend," his eyes lighting up in a way that made my heart skip. "In that case, I might never give it back."

"Fine by me," I murmured, closing the remaining distance between us.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle connection after a long day of contained affection. But as Lucas's arms slid around my neck, the jacket sleeves falling back to free his hands, it deepened into something more urgent, more heated.

I backed him gently against the wall beside his door, my good hand cupping his face as I kissed him thoroughly, trying to convey everything I couldn't yet put into words—how much he meant to me, how grateful I was for his patience, how incredibly right it felt to be with him like this.

When we finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Lucas's eyes remained closed for a moment, as if he was savoring the sensation.

"That was quite a goodnight kiss," he observed when he opened them again. "Do I want to know what that was for?"

"Just because," I said simply. "Because I wanted to, and I could, and you're you."

Lucas's expression softened at my somewhat incoherent explanation. "Well, feel free to 'just because' me anytime you want."

"I'll keep that in mind," I promised, reluctantly stepping back. "I should go. Early therapy session tomorrow, and you probably have deadlines."

"Always," Lucas sighed, though he made no move toward his door. "Will I see you tomorrow? After therapy?"

"Count on it," I assured him. "I'll text you when I'm done."

With one last lingering kiss, we finally parted ways, though I found myself looking back over my shoulder as I walked away, just to catch one more glimpse of him standing there in my jacket, watching me go.

As I made my way back to my apartment, I marveled at how different this return felt from previous road trips. Usually, I came home exhausted but wired, replaying the game in my head, analyzing my performance, dwelling on mistakes. Tonight, despite the residual ache in my shoulder, I felt content. Grounded in a way that had everything to do with the connection I was building with Lucas.

It was a new feeling, this sense of being valued for something beyond my athletic ability. By Coach, by the team, by Lucas most of all. The idea that I might be more than just Sean Mitchell, defenseman—that I could be Sean who noticed tactical details, Sean who could lead from the bench, Sean who could be honest about his feelings—was still taking shape in my mind, but it felt like something worth exploring.

My phone buzzed as I reached my building, and I pulled it out to find a message from Lucas: Made it inside safely, though your jacket is coming to bed with me. Fair warning: it may smell like my cologne by the time you get it back. Miss you already. -L

I smiled, typing back a response before heading upstairs: Jacket upgrade, if you ask me. Already looking forward to tomorrow. Sleep well. -S

I went to bed without rewatching game footage. Instead, I drifted off thinking about Lucas's smile when I'd given him my jacket, and how I couldn't wait to see him wearing it again tomorrow.